The Phantom and Me
by Cristy Daae
Summary: Christine Daniels is a humble writer for the New York Times Travel section. Wanting to climb up into the bigger stories, she is offered a story on the Paris Opera House. Little does she know murder is in the Program, and only one man can help her.E/OC
1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

"Daniels, get in here!"

My head jerked up from the computer screen before me to find my boss waiting at his office door. Gus Berkley, Editor- in – chief of the New York Times could be a blustery guy. Standing at Six foot four, with black hair, beard and mustache, and dark brown eyes, it was no wonder why no one stood up to the guy. Despite his rough, bruiser-esque exterior, Gus was a great guy. I rose from my seat in my plain, half height cubicle and hurriedly straightened my ivory sateen long sleeve blouse and skirt, wondering what the Editor- in- Chief wanted from a simple feature writer for the Travel section. I combed through my mane of hair subconsciously as I approached my boss.

"What' cha need, Gus?" I asked, confusion setting in. Gus only nodded toward the interior of his office, adding more tension to the situation. I obeyed the silent order, entering the disheveled room and sat down in the smaller chair at the front of the paper littered desk. "What's going on?"

"Chris, I need a favor from you." Gus began, sinking into his seat. I could see where this was going. They didn't have enough stories and needed me to write emergency filler ones. "The National Opera of Paris is having its 133rd season and has requested that we send a reporter to do a story on it." Okay, that wasn't what I expected.

"Yeah, I heard about that." I responded, baffled. Where was he going with this? That was a huge story, larger than any I had been asked to do before. Besides it had already been assigned last Friday, to my comrade Matthew McPherson.

"Well, I need you to go and get the story. Can you leave tomorrow?" Gus asked. His expression was pleading.

"I thought you had given the story to Matt." I arched an eyebrow; this was too good to not have a catch. A tired sigh escaped from the Editor.

"I did, but he's gotten sick. There is no way he can go with a 105 temperature." He answered, massaging his temple. Great, I'll take a side effect of guilt with my good fortune, thank you Gus. "So what do you say? Interested?"

I was silent for a moment. This was fantastic. My first international story was just what I needed to punch my career to the next level. Plus it didn't hurt that I had always wanted to go to Paris.

"Okay." I finally responded. A huge grin crossed Gus' face. It was amazing what a change a smile could make on a person's appearance because Gus resembled a giant Teddy bear.

"Great! Here's your ticket." He beamed, handing over a crisp white envelope. "Take the rest of the afternoon off and pack."

"Thanks, Gus. You're the best!" I snatched the envelope from him playfully. Giving him one of my patented smiles, I rose to my feet and casually left the office. Once the door shut with a click behind me, I shot my hand in the air with what was clearly a winning gesture. I was going to Paris. I hurried back to my cubicle to grab my jacket and purse. I quickly ejected my USB drive and tossed it in my Louis Vitton with the plane ticket. I then snatched up my denim trench coat, and turned to leave.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" a friendly voice asked as I pelted towards the elevator. I stopped to allow Claire to approach me. Claire was the older sister to my fresh out of college career. She was the one who had shown me the ropes while I interned and arranged for me to be hired months later. I respected this thirty- something woman with the celluloid glance.

"You won't believe it." I said breathlessly.

"Try me." Claire's blue eyes were showing her amusement. Claire was one of those classic looking blondes, hair perfectly coifed and makeup flawless like one of the fashionable movie starlets from the twenties, which made me really jealous sometimes. My own brunette curls did nothing but frizz no matter how much hairspray and gel I used.

"I got the Paris story."

"No way!" Claire exclaimed. "Congratulations."

"Thanks. Gus just told me." I continued. Suddenly the elevator doors slid open. "I got to go." I quickly stepped into the gleaming elevator car and pushed the first floor button. I waved emphatically at Claire, who was laughing at my ecstatic expression.

"I'll call you later." She stated as the doors began to glide shut. "We need to celebrate."

"See ya then!" I managed to get out before the doors shut completely.

Moments later, I was pelting through the revolving door and out into the bustling streets of New York City. The buzzing metropolis known as 'the city that never sleeps', was holding true to its name. People were racing down the sidewalks, street vendors and hustlers were bargaining with the odd tourist trying to pawn off some faux Gucci sunglasses or Chanel earrings. I crossed the street and headed to the nearest subway entrance. The gritty looking concrete steps were pouring fourth other passengers as I manipulated my way down. I removed my fare card and, as one trained to do such through rote; I slipped the card through the turn stile, squeezing my way through and onto the platform. Thankfully, my train pulled in just at that moment. I boarded just seconds after the doors opened. The train car lurched forward and swayed as it sped down the tracks, lulling me into a dreamy state. Other passengers were all doing their own thing, reading a book, listening to their IPod, or talking on their cell.

"Now arriving, Chambers Street." A voice droned over the loud speakers. I gathered my belongings from the seat next to me and headed up to street level. I passed the white washed City Hall and crossed Broadway to my apartment in number 80 Chambers Street, feeling confident that this would be the story to change my life. I said a hurried 'hello' to the doorman and security guard before heading to the elevator.

"You're in a hurry today Miss Daniels." The careworn smile of Tom, the burly security guard, stopped me for a moment.

"Business trip." I stated as I continued my trek. The rest if the afternoon flew by in a flash as I raced around my bedroom looking for my best ensembles. We are talking Paris here, Paris! I was determined to at least look like I wasn't a tourist. I was in the middle of debating between an empire-waisted dress and a pink cashmere sweater with jeans outfit, when the trademark theme from Phantom of the Opera filled the room. I launched myself at my purse and scrambled for my Cell phone. With a flourish, I flipped open the cell and brought it to my ear.

"Hello?"

"It's me, you ready to get something to eat?" Claire's voice filtered through the electronic static. I glanced over at the digital display on my alarm clock to find that it was already six in the evening.

"Yeah, I'll be right down." I answered, grabbing my coat and heading for the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The nauseating sound of my alarm clock woke me at five in the morning with a roaring hangover. I cursed as I reached groggily for the off switch. My head felt like it had one of those aliens Sigourney Weaver fought crawling around inside it, clawing to get out. I was next to fainting from the throbbing.

"Damned thing," I cursed, "Shaddup!" Once the nuisance was silenced, I tumbled out of bed and wobbled into the bathroom, blindly waving my hand across the wall in search of the light switch. With an hour and a half to spare, I started the hot water running. The soothing heat immediately worked its magic and I found my pounding headache gradually disintegrating. After that, I got dressed into a jean and sweater outfit and slipped on my knee high boots. I grabbed my suitcase and turned the knob on the front door. The cab made it to JFK airport with forty five minutes to spare. I hauled my way through the lines and lines of other passengers waiting for their security check. Finally, after a half an hour of patiently waiting to step through the puffer and have my carry on x-rayed, I managed to find a seat at my departure gate. I had fifteen minutes or more to wait.

Zoning out from ibuprofen, I stared at one of those quaint, "pass your time" bookstore kiosks through my dark sunglasses watching as people read the blurbs on the back covers. My eye was drawn to a particular title. Rising to my feet I entered the shop and stared at the cover with curiosity.

_The Essential Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux_ was embossed over a photo of a masked man and a blonde haired woman sitting in a boat. At the bottom of the book it said _Leonard Wolf, Editor_. I knew that the Broadway musical was based on the book, but that was the extent of my knowledge about it. I liked Andrew Lloyd Webber's music, and had seen the show a few times with family from out of state. Of course, I loved the show. I figured that it might be insightful to read what inspired the longest running show in current Broadway history, since I was going to the place where it was set.

"It could be interesting." I mused, flipping the pages like a pack of cards. I carried the volume to the register and placed it on the glass top counter. Ten minutes and nine dollars later, I sat in the plane next to the window and turned to the first page.

"_The Phantom of the opera existed. He was not, as was believed for a long time, a creature imagined by artists; a superstition of directors; a droll creation of the excitable minds of the young women of the corps de ballet, their mothers, or the box attendants, the cloak room employees, or the doorkeeper. _

_Yes, he existed, in flesh and blood, despite the fact that, he appeared to everyone to be a veritable Phantom- That is to say, a ghost…,"_

Oooh, a mystery, I loved those kinds of books.

Fast forward twelve hours and I reluctantly closed the book to begin disembarking the plane. The book was getting good too. The Phantom was stalking Raoul and the Vicomt had just shot at what he thought were the Phantom's eyes. As I passed through the gangplank, all of the attendants waved while shouting "Bonjour et Bienvenu a Paris!" Jet lag began to hit and hit hard as a jaw cracking yawn escaped from me. I squeezed my way through the crowd and made my way to the baggage claim. After breezing my way through customs I headed to the Taxi stand, and found, to my surprise, that a chauffer was holding a white board with my name scrawled across it in neat handwriting.

"I'm Christine Daniels." I stated, pulling out my Press pass. The chauffer glanced at it and, with a nod, gestured for me to follow him to his car. Once I was comfortably situated in the back seat of an infinity, I took in the sights of Paris. We crossed the sine on our way to the famous Opera house. As it loomed into view, I completely understood why people considered this an architectural wonder of the world. The car stopped in front of a huge sweeping stair case. As I exited the vehicle an older man approached.

"The reporter from the New York Times, I presume? I am Gerard DeBataille, the Manager of the Paris Opera." His deep voice was warm with welcome, a hint of a French accent inflecting his flawless English. He had a friendly face and wore an impeccable suite. He extended a hand, which I shook vigorously as I introduced myself.

"I am Christine Daniels, Reporter for the New York Times. It's a pleasure to meetcha, M. DeBataille"

"It's wonderful to meet you Miss Daniels, if you would please follow me."

The Manager led me through a massive lobby and into the backstage area of the theater. It was bustling with activity as actors and stage hands were doing a dress rehearsal. A chorus echoed through the auditorium, while the Manager and I stood on the sidelines.

"We are performing our annual production of Faust tonight," he gave me a sideways glance, a smile creeping across his features. There was a sudden pause, and the Manager seized his chance to get everyone's attention.

"Ladies, and gentlemen, as you all know, for sometime there have been rumors of a journalist from the states arriving to write a piece about us." The Manager's clear voice exclaimed over the grumbling crowd of rehearsing performers. "Well, it is my deep pleasure to inform you that these rumors are all true. Allow me to introduce the journalist, Christine Daniels." Right on cue, I stepped forward and gave a cheery wave and my patented smile. Some of the grumbling subsided. Others just got louder, and a few I assumed were cursing.

"Bonjour monsieurs et Mademoiselles, I am glad to be here to show the States what fine performers reside here at the Paris Opera House." I stated. "I would love to interview a few of you about your experiences here at the Paris Opera House, But please, don't let me interrupt your rehearsal." Immediately there was a collective sigh and the actors and musicians went back to work. I set my self in an inconspicuous place on the side of the stage, making sure to stay out of the way. As I waited, I stared up into the rafters, daydreaming.

While I dazed off, I could have sworn I saw a shadow shift up on a cat walk. Apparently my jet lag was affecting my imagination. With a shrug and a quiet chuckle, I turned my attention back to what was happening on stage.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

An Hour later, I stood there with my camera in hand, snapping pictures to go with the article. It was quite the show. I could understand why the Phantom liked it so much. I suddenly chuckled at the thought. Wow, I was getting tired.

"Alright everyone, that will be all," a voice exclaimed from the auditorium, bringing me back to reality. "Go and rest up. You all are going to need it for tomorrow." I jumped in surprise when I saw a man walk up the right side steps from the auditorium onto the stage with the musical director. He had jet black hair and wore a black turtleneck that did nothing to hide his lean yet muscular physique. My curiosity was peaked. Who was he? There was something magnetic about him that was intangible.

As the crowd of performers surged past me for the dressing rooms, I stood on tiptoe to try and see him a little better. Unfortunately, the tide of humanity washed me back stage against my will. Running a frantic hand through my curls and throwing my bag over my shoulder, I muttered a curse as I headed for the stage door. Even while I followed the signs, I still managed to get lost in the massive structure. It was a maze; a foreigner like me could never hope to navigate such insanity.

"WHERE AM I?"

I sagged against a wall trying to regain my composure. As I told myself to calm down, I heard the soft chords of a piano. I felt drawn to the sound. Then it hit me. Whoever was playing could lead me the way out of here. I was exhausted and was desperate to get to the hotel. A hot bath would go a long way to relieving my jetlag. Without a second thought, I searched out the source of the music and found it emanating from a Dance hall. The ornate door was cracked open, teasing my curiosity. A warning feeling made me hesitate as I placed my hand against the door. After a breath, I pushed the door open and saw… nothing. The piano was dust covered and looked like it hadn't been played in a century. Confusion settled in as I approached the instrument.

"Hey! What are you doing here?" Shit! I was caught. Bag flapping in the breeze, I spun around to confront the voice. It was the Man from the stage. He seemed to be studying some of the carved cherubs on the wall. I could only see the left side of his face.

"Sorry, I'll just go," I muttered turning to leave.

"Is there something I can do to help you madam?" His French accent was adorable. I turned back to the room cautiously.

"I'm just a little lost, it is no big deal really," I stated readjusting the strap of my duffle bag nervously. "I'll just go find a janitor or someone." I could tell he was trying to figure me out with that cold, calculating, sideways glance of his. He had a Mr. Darcy-esque jaw and cheekbone.

"You go ahead and do that. In case you couldn't tell, I am a little busy." He said. A flush of indignation crossed my cheeks as I turned to go. I closed the door a little harder than necessary when I left. What. An. Asshole. I didn't mean to get lost! And why the hell was he in the Paris Opera after hours? The French seem to really hate Americans. I stormed down the halls in search of someone who could get me the hell out of here. Still, he was very attractive.

I glanced down a darkened corridor and froze. Did I just see a man in a cloak? I immediately chose to investigate. Rounding the corner, I caught the tip of the cape disappearing down a flight of stairs that led to nowhere but pitch black. Against my impulse to follow, I knew I wouldn't be able to find my way back if I went down. Reluctantly, I turned away. It wasn't long after that I found a janitor. His back was turned to me, but I could tell he was one of those thickset biker types. His damaged long hair was pulled back in a low pony. He kind of reminded me of Robbie Coltrane.

"Excuse me!" I called out. The man turned to me with a startled jolt. He had a thin beard and mustache that made me image a bear. I was intimidated.

"Hello, who are ye?" He said with a gruff, yet friendly, British accent. Okay, not so intimidated anymore. My jaw hit the floor. I never thought a British person would be working in France. I suppose it's not that odd seeing as they're only a Chunnel ride away from each other. "Not lost are ye?"

"…Exactly that," I responded, once I managed to pick my jaw up off of the floor. "Could you help me find the way out of here?"

"Sure, Miss. It's not every day a man like me gets to rescue a damsel in distress," He gave me a charming wink before gesturing down the hall. "…This way."

He seemed harmless enough and I followed him. He led me down a corridor that had a Victorian feel to it. Tapestries hung from the walls, and thick carpeting was underfoot. I just took in the beauty of the place.

"You're not from around here are ya?" he suddenly asked, fixing me with an expression of curiosity.

"No not really. I'm a reporter from the New York Times," I answered. "The name's Christine Daniels."

"Joseph Becker," He responded. At that moment I found myself in the lobby of the theater.

"Wow that was fast." Joseph started laughing. What? Just because I looked like I had no sense of direction, didn't mean he had to laugh.

"Well, Mr. Becker, It's been a pleasure. May I ask for an interview at a later date? Say… tomorrow before the performance?" I extended my hand to shake his.

"That will be fine. And it's Joseph, by the way."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N- Sorry it took so long, but I had to focus on my life for a while. I hope you enjoy this next chapter because things are going to heat up! TEE- HEE! To reply to some of my wonderful reviews: Yes there is more to the story, and yes I would love to have a Beta. ******

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Chapter Four- Murder and a Show

I left the theater and went straight to the hotel, ready to collapse from my ever present jet lag. All I wanted was to take a warm shower, get a jump start on my report, and go to bed. And that was exactly what I would do. The hotel room was located in one of the ritzier sections of Paris, and absolutely stunning. All of my French in High School and College really does have its perks. The room consisted of a joint office, dining room, and bedroom, with a large bathroom (for which I was very pleased).

The phone rang early the next morning, stirring me from my sleep. My hand wandered aimlessly on the bedside table as I reached for the phone.

"Hello…" I mumbled into the receiver. I was not a morning person.

"Bonjour Mademoiselle Daniels, le heur est Dix heur," A clipped French voice stated through the phone. With a half formed merci, I rose from my bed and prepared for my Interview with Joseph. I would be able to interview the manager just before the performance. After a rushed breakfast in the Hotel's restaurant, I got in a cab and headed to the theater. Joseph was waiting for me at the door, leaning against one of the massive sarancolin pillars, arms folded in a deceptively intimidating manner.

"So what would you like to ask me first?" Joseph smiled as we began a long walk around the theater.

"Well, let's start with… how long have you worked here?" I pulled a note pad and pen out of my purse and Scribbled Joseph Becker across the top of the page.

"Let's just say that I've worked here long enough to have seen my share of strange things in this theater. For time's sake, I've been here about ten years."

"Really?" my curiosity was caught and held ransom. "Out of curiosity, what kind of strange things?"

"Well, for instance, falling drops and sandbags that barely miss people. Our techies are some of the best. They do not make mistakes like that. And costume pieces disappear from time to time,"Joseph's voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. "And I swear that sometimes, especially late at night, I can hear an organ playing."

"Joseph, we need the bathrooms cleaned, damned tourists have trashed it again," An official stated, interrupting the interview.

"Duty calls," Joseph winked. "I promise to catch up with ye later."

With nothing better to do, I headed back to the Lobby, intending to start on the article. On my way to the door I was stopped by a concierge from the ticket office.

"Mademoiselle…" he said, handing a ticket to me. "…Compliments of the Management."

"Wow! Tell Monsieur Debataille thank you," I smiled. That was awesome. I had planned on paying to see one of the shows before heading home, but I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was about 1:30 now and the show started at seven. Knowing me, I would need all the time I could get for primping. I headed to the hotel and prepared for tonight's opera.

When I returned I was shown to one of the box seats of the auditorium. I sat there watching the theater fill for the performance.

"Mademoiselle Daniels good evening!" M. Debataille greeted me as he entered the box seat, sitting down in the spare seat. At that moment the lights dimmed to great applause and the curtain rose, revealing an elderly man sitting in a scientist's lab.

"Mademoiselle, excuse me," The manager stated softly after the first act ended.

"Where are you going? Aren't you going to watch the show?" I asked.

"Being the Manager, I do not have the liberty to do such. I have to check Sales, the coatroom, and meet with the stage manager during intermission,"Gerard smiled politely.

"Is there anything I can do to help? I really want to get the full feel of this place before I write about it," Monsieur Debataille gave a small smile before nodding his consent.

"I'll give you a crash course in Managing a theater," We silently left the auditorium and headed to the backstage to meet with the Stage Manager. On our way we were both stopped dead in our tracks.

"Oh my god," I whispered breathlessly. I stared, both transfixed and horrified, at the gently swaying body of Joseph Becker, who hung from the support beams of the Opera house's backstage area. A grotesque sort of desperation was etched on his face. Deep shadows were under his eyes, which had a half- mad glare in them. I left with Gerard to help them contact the police. I was in shock. Joseph seemed like such a happy guy who loved what he did. A half an hour later and the police, as well as a coroner, followed us back to Joseph's corpse. Another shock waited when we returned. Joseph was no longer hanging by a rope; instead he lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. The ligature marks were still fresh around his neck. I sat nearby watching the police do their work. My eyes never left Joseph's face until he was zipped inside a body bag.

"Mademoiselle," a Middle Eastern man approached me, kneeling to look me in the eye. He had a few streaks of grey in his dark colored hair, and frown lines upon his forehead. "I am Inspector Mohammad Abjib. May I ask you a few questions?"

"Of course!" He began to rapidly fire off questions.

"Did you know Monsieur Becker?"His tone was brisk and matter-of-fact.

"I met him briefly last night when I needed assistance finding an exit. I met him earlier today for an interview concerning an article I am writing."

"You are a writer?"

"Yes, a travel columnist for the New York Times."

"What is this article about?"

"It is to inform the American public of the culture to be found at the Paris Opera. I mean Tourists come to Paris all year around, why not suggest an opera?"I responded.

"Very true, Mademoiselle, May I see your passport?"He suddenly asked.

"Am I suspected, Inspector?" I asked, utter disbelief written upon my features. I dug through my purse and produced my passport for him.

"Non, mademoiselle. We may need you for more questioning, and we don't want you to leave the country just yet," His severe expression softened. "I am sorry your work took such a sour turn. Thank you for your time."

"You're welcome". The inspector turned to leave. I sat there for a few moments, letting my mind soak in the conversation I had just finished. I could tell I had set my mind into standby; I didn't want to think at the moment.

"Christine…" I blinked my eyes open. Did I just hear someone singing my name softly? I began to follow it. The sound lead me down deserted corridors that lead me to another staircase into a murky inconsistent light. Biting my lower lip, I followed the stairs down into the storage cellars of the Opera House.

"Hello?"I called. I began weaving my way through the props and set pieces. I could hear the Opera starting above me. I felt like I was in grandma's attic, examining all of the stuff. Suddenly all of the lights went out, and emergency one's flipped on. I stood perfectly still as I felt the temperature drop dramatically around me. The hairs on the back of my neck were suddenly standing on end, causing me to turn around to leave. I nearly ran into a man in a suit and opera cloak. Looking up at him I saw only a full face mask than actual face.

"Qui êtes-vous et pourquoi êtes-vous me suivez?" The man asked me in a voice I recognized from the singing. "Est il vraiment vous?" his hand reached out hesitantly to touch my arm.

"Pardon? Je parle anglais, Monsieur,"I responded. Something about this stranger was keeping me still, instead of running for the hills. A soft laugh escaped from the man.

"Very well Christine, I'll play your game. Have you forgotten that I speak quite a few languages?" He circled around me, an elegantly gloved fist tucked beneath his chin in a thoughtful gesture. I took a step back.

"You have me confused with someone else, sir,"I whispered.

"Mademoiselle Daniels?" A familiar voice filtered into the cellar, I looked behind me to see where the voice was coming from. Suddenly the lights flicked back on, and I turned back to find the masked man was gone.

"Here you are," Gerard Debataille approached me. "Good thing I found you, it is very easy to get lost in here. Why were you down here anyway?"

"I thought I heard someone singing down here," I responded, not taking my eyes off of the spot where the mysterious masked man had stood. Gerard began to chuckle.

"Perhaps you heard the Opera ghost," He said.

"What?"

"It is a joke we have here. We have a love hate relationship with Gaston Leroux's novel. Because of it we get thousands of tourists here, and we make money off of the tours of this place. Yet at the same time we have to deal with their noise and disruptions. In truth, you probably just heard the show being filtered from above." And with his explanation, he escorted me back to the theater to watch the final act of the show.


	5. Chapter 5

I was reluctant to stay at the theater after I was escorted back to the lobby by Gerard. My skin would not stop crawling from the event of Joseph's death. It was just wrong. And who in the hell was that masked man? Why did his voice seem so familiar? I grabbed my coat from the coat room and hailed a cab to take me back to the Hotel.

After a bath and changing into my tee shirt and pajama bottoms, I sat at the table, quickly writing a report of today's events with a letter to Gus explaining that I may not be coming home for a while as I was going to be needed as a witness (though more likely a suspect something told me). When I clicked the send button on my E-mail account, a great sigh escaped. I made myself a cup of tea in the pseudo- kitchen, hoping it would settle my thoughts which were raging at a fever pitch. As I tried to force myself to sleep, I kept having my mind wander back to the man. Finally I gave up, grabbing the only reading material I had. I flipped the book open to the page marked and saw only white.

"What the Hell?" I exclaimed rapidly thumbing through the pages to the beginning. The words just vanished after the account of Joseph Buquet's death. I kept flipping the one page to the one following, utterly baffled by the anomaly. I remembered distinctly almost finishing the book the day previous. I let loose a string of curses wondering what had happened. It was downright creepy, the similarities I found as I reread the passage about the death of Buquet and his magically vanishing noose. I felt a very prominent chill run up and down my spine, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. I threw the book away from me like it was on fire, and took a few deep breaths to calm my nerves before laying down to force myself to sleep.

Twelve hours later, a knock resounded on the door. I rose from my seat at the desk to answer. Standing there was my friend and colleague, Matthew McPherson, The man whose story had been given to me because of an illness. His sand blonde hair looked disheveled but incredibly attractive. His white button down shirt hung a little open at the top and he had a hastily packed duffle bag.

"I heard about what happened and came as fast as I could," He said.

"I thought you were sick!" I exclaimed, opening the door wider for him to enter. He squeezed past with a grateful smile. He then collapsed in one of the seats.

"I was. I came into the office to fill out some sick day forms and caught Gus as he was reading your email. I dropped what I was doing and flew concord to get here now." He smiled cheekily as I handed him a cup of coffee to soften the jet lag. "I guess the flight cured me."

"You shouldn't have. What if you had gotten sicker?"I chastised. Matt just grinned nonchalantly.

"I figured you needed a friend right now," He explained when I continued to frown at him. My expression softened.

"Thanks," was all I could say. He winked before a yawn I was all too familiar with threatened to split his jaw. I ordered him to sleep, dragging him to the bed. As he slept, I dressed and packed my laptop and camera, deciding to continue my story down in the lobby. I left the room and stepped into the elevator. When I left the elevator car I was waylaid by the compulsion to visit the theater. I could do some freelance work and report on the murder. I went to the clerk counter ant told them to take a message to my room for Matt, telling him where I was. I then hailed a cab and headed to the theater. When I arrived I started interviewing people who were employed by the Opera on their thoughts on Joseph's death. At one point I stood back stage staring at 'le Danse Macabre' in the ballet lounge, my back turned to the room. A man came up on my left.

"I am told that you were witness to Joseph's suicide," I recognized the voice as the asshole from my introduction to the theater. I gritted my teeth, expecting the worse. I know it was childish, but I hated him for his arrogance. He just had this nose in the air way about him.

"I was," I replied, determined to not rise to any bait he may have. "Monsieur Debataille was with me."

"My apologies, His death was tragic, and as an outsider, I hope you don't think these occurrences are the norm here." He said. I eyed him in my peripheral suspiciously.

"Thank you," I responded. "I'll be on my way." I turned on my heel and started to walk away from him, secretly pleased that I had managed to have had a decent conversation with him.

"Do you need any help finding your way?" The question was like nails on the chalkboard of my pride. His pompous tone really irritated me.

"No, but thank you very much for offering, I can find it alone," I turned and smiled at his back snidely, but continued on my way.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I don't own Phantom or Me and Mr. Darcy, If I did I wouldn't be military. I hope you all enjoy. **

Later that evening I returned to my hotel room to find a grim looking Matthew.

"Hey Matt, why the long face?" I asked.

"a Inspector Abjib was here asking for you," He answered.

"Shit," I moaned. Matt looked worried as I sank into my chair. "The inspector… was here… he wanted to arrest me didn't he."

"It certainly looked like it," Matt agreed.

"Matt, come with me to the opera house," I suddenly ordered, jumping to my feet and heading out of the room and to the service stairs so that no one would see me. Matt caught up with me just as I hit the first step.

"Christine, what is this all about?" Matt asked. The look of 'she has lost it' crossed his face.

"I think the man who killed Joseph Becker is still at the opera House, and as** I** am being held accountable for his crimes,** I** intend to bring him to justice," I hissed, utterly lit with the flames of fury. Matt just followed me down the stairs. We left out of a back entrance and fifteen minutes later we were near the abandoned dressing rooms of the theater. I had explained to Matt the maze like quality of the place and I decided to look for anyone suspicious in the remotest sections of the theater first.

"Christine…," A soft sound filled the hallway. It seemed to emanate from the last room in the hall.

"Did you hear that?" I asked.

"Hear what?"

"That singing… you didn't hear it?" I was puzzled by Matt's reaction, the voice was so hauntingly clear. I raced forward and yanked open the door. It revealed an empty space with one massive filigreed Mirror dominating a section of a wall. The room was old and chintzy. I entered the room and just stared at everything. There was something nagging at the back of my mind telling me that I knew this place, not like a repressed déjà-vu thing, more like I knew it through outside sources.

"What are you doing?' Matt was sounding irritated. "Shouldn't we go back to the scene of the crime and look for clues?"

"You're right, Matt. I know I'm acting crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy. Just not thinking straight. Lord knows that I' wouldn't be either were I in your shoes. I gestured for him to lead the way and lingered by the mirror for a little longer as I watched him leave the room. The darkness of a passage suddenly engulfed me as I felt a hand cover my mouth and both of my hands were grabbed and pulled behind me to be held fast in one very strong hand.

"Do not scream," A familiar voice whispered in my ear. Instantly I went slack in his arms, fully conscious but unable to defend myself. In this trance like state, my hand was taken gently and I was lead through the mirror into the depths of the building.

"Christine?" I heard Matthew shout behind me, noticing that I was missing. He did not see me being lead against my own volition into a secret passage that shut behind me. I realized with terror that I was alone. There was no one to help me. His hands were bony, and I immediately recognized this man. My mind went on the fritz as realization that I was standing in the presence of The Phantom of the Opera, a man who shouldn't exist right now, even if he had at one point.

"Erik…?" I murmured weakly before I blacked out. I came to in his arms by a fountain that was illuminated by a bright kerosene lamp. He had a damp cloth resting on my forehead. I reached up and removed it before looking him in the eyes of his mask.

"Hello," I greeted drily. My expression was that of irritation.

"Hello," He replied, the tone of his voice made it clear that he was amused. "I see that you now recognize me, my dearest Christine."

"First of all, I'm obviously having a very long winded nightmare. You can't exist. Secondly, I am not Christine Daae. My name is Christine _Daniels_," I over emphasized my last name to make my point. I slipped from his arms and got to my feet. His shoulders started to shake in silent laughter. "And thirdly, wipe that smile off those hidden skeletal lips of yours, and stop laughing! I am in no mood, _Erik_!"

"I am sorry. It was not my intent to upset you, but your claims are absolutely absurd. Firstly I do exist, as evidenced by your senses of touch and sight," He said in a voice that was just as beautiful as described in the novel. "Secondly, do you think by changing your last name that you can hide from me? I have known you for quite some time. And thirdly, _**come to me**_." I tried to resist his powers of compulsion, but it was a losing battle and I walked against my will to him, standing uncomfortably close. He brushed a gloved hand against my cheek so softly I barely felt his touch.

"Have you ever come to harm when in my presence?" He asked. I thought about it and reluctantly came to the conclusion that he never had hurt me. His silent nod showed that he could read my thoughts in my crest fallen expression. The man in a black cloak led me down some stairs that opened up into the cellars below. We walked through the props and set pieces like ghosts. We rounded a corner in his patchwork of passages and there stood a horse. Erik climbed up into the back of it and pulled me into his arms. I almost immediately went calm and limp in his arms, not even shivering against his low body temperature. After what seemed like an eternity, we halted before the cellar door that led into the Theater's lake like catacombs. I was guided onto the little dingy at the base of the wooden steps and sat as Erik took the oar and steered us into the black unknown.

**P.S.A/N: and at last we come to the meat and potatoes with the blatantly obvious revelation of who our dear masked figure with the enchanting voice is. tee hee. what will happen next, will Erik be doomed to the same fate as his previous trysts, or will he be able to win her over. Is he the murderer, Is he even Erik? and what of Christine? Is she really the woman from the book or a victim of grossly convienent similarities? what will Matthew do? Stay tuned for more fourth wall breakage in THE PHANTOM AND ME.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N- sorry this took forever but I finished this amazing Phanphic written by Zerbinetta called Keep it a mystery, and I realized how similar our stories are and had to edit it some to make my girl obviously O/C. She's feisty and doesn't take crap from anyone. But she's polite. And I received such inspiration from Faust of all things, I just listened to a few of the songs for the first time ever and it gave me such stamina to write. Gounod's work is stunning! I can see why Erik loved it so much! If you want faster updates, I need reviews, lots and lots of reviews. The emotional high those give me enables me to write PAGES at a time! Also, I would love some suggestions. In fact, I kind of need them. I might go back and add some stuff to earlier chapters so please keep an eye on those! Anyway on with the show.**

**Disclaimer- I don't own ****me and Mr. Darcy**** or ****The Phantom of the Opera,**** if I did I wouldn't be joining the military.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Matt searched for Christine in the neighboring dressing rooms for an hour before he raced to the lobby's front desk. Each room had been as empty as the one she had disappeared from. Now the doors whistled past as he sped on to his location. The lobby was near empty at this time. Panic had taken over when he attempted to make the desk clerk understand what had happened.

"Dammit woman just call the Fucking Police! Or give me the damn phone and I'll do it!" He exclaimed in frustration. He felt so stupid for leaving his phone in the hotel room and for her alone like that when there was a killer on the loose. God knew where she could be. He was finally given the landline and dialed the French equivalent of 9-1-1. It was mere moments before a familiar Muslim Inspector entered the theater followed by a team of forensic specialists and police.

"Oh no, I didn't know _you_ were going to be here! Why'd they send _you_?" Matt growled, knowing that this was the guy who had wanted to arrest the innocent woman.

"Christine Daniels is the prime suspect in my case, all matters concerning her are under my jurisdiction," Inspector Abjib frowned slightly, professionalism injected into every move he made. Matthew couldn't help scoffing.

"Well, take her off that list of prime suspects because she has been kidnapped!" He managed to say.

"Yes, I understand that, would you mind starting from the beginning."And with the Inspector's suspicious calm irking him to no end, Matthew launched into the tale.

********

"Welcome back to my home, Christine," Erik said. I was escorted into the house and felt my jaw hit the floor. The place was a dream, exactly as I imagined. There were pieces of sheet music everywhere, surrounding most heavily the massive piano. Chaises were shoved tastefully in corners, while Persian rugs littered the floor. I let loose a long low whistle.

"Impressive."

'Erik' indicated that I should sit, and I did so. But I did nothing to hide my annoyance. This just didn't make sense. Not even in the slightest. First, Joseph's death followed by the interrogation, the book anomaly, and now this. I began wondering as 'Erik' moved about the room, brightening the lamps, if maybe I had fallen unconscious in the dressing room due to stress. It would explain my apparent hallucination. I was utterly confused. I watched him, there was no doubt in my mind that this was either _the_ Erik, or someone obsessed and happened to have many of the exact same qualities described in the book. He exuded elegance and a chilling charisma that told you not to mess with him. After a moment He sat at the grand Piano.

"Will you sing with me again, Christine, like we used to? We made such a lovely duet," He asked, well, more like pleaded. It was pitiful. Why didn't this guy get the point? I wasn't a singer. I could carry a tune, and maybe not kill people's eardrums on Karaoke nights, but I was no singer. I decided to be blunt.

"No. I. Don't. Sing," I said through gritted teeth. Bad move in retrospect for he flew into a rage unlike any I had ever seen. I was yanked to my feet so ferociously by my wrists I was surprised that I didn't receive a dislocated shoulder.

"You will sing for me, Christine, or so help me I'll…,"He snarled, clutching my wrists even tighter, causing a shout of pain from me. I was going to be bruised, that was for sure. But I was quickly getting sick of 'Erik's theatrics.

"…You'll do what? Beat me? Murder me? Dude, let me fill you in, I figured that was what was going to happen the moment you grabbed me upstairs. You literally have nothing over me. I'm not afraid of you. And I don't know how to make you see that I'm not the woman you are trying to make me be. So allow me to make you an ultimatum. You can either return me, or so help _me_, I will rip that mask off of you this instant." Erik's hold on my wrists weakened, and I slid them free. He looked at me with utter mortification, even stepped back as though I had punched him. Of course I was bluffing, but I happened to be serious on making good on my threat if he chose to be unreasonable.

"Deal or no deal?" I asked. It was a massive gamble. No matter who he really was, or his origins, he still had that hypnotic quality to his voice that could will me to stay, to follow his every whim. And given the chance I knew he'd use it. But after a few moments he seemed to visibly calm, but a touch of sadness lingered in his frame. He approached me, and I tensed. Rather than veiled threats, he brought a long boney hand to my cheek, caressing it with care. He then took my hands, both of us noticing the dark rings spreading across my wrists. His eyes did nothing to hide his horror at what he'd done.

"I'm sorry, Christine. So very sorry, will you please forgive me?"He murmured, so sweet, and so seductively I really had to be on my A game. I made a point to be reasonable as I had managed to get him to calm down and stop further harm from coming to me or his home.

"I'll forgive you the bruises, if and only if you return me to my friend," I replied, taking a seat. Erik kneeled before me much as he had been described in the book.

"Surely the boy can wait until morning?" he asked.

Apparently that was all the cooperation I was getting out of him. I nodded my acquiescence. He flew to his Piano, and began singing phrases of a song I had heard somewhere before.

_Quel trouble inconnu me pénètre? _

_Je sens l'amour s'emparer de mon être!_

_Ô Marguerite, à tes pieds me voici!_

_Salut! demeure chaste et pure, _

_Salut! demeure chaste et pure, _

_Où se devine la présence _

_d'une âme innocent et divine! _

_Que de richesse en cette pauvreté! _

_En ce réduit, que de félicité! _

_Que de richesse, _

_Que de richesse en cette pauvreté! _

_Ô nature, C'est là _

_que tu la fis si belle! _

_C'est là que cet enfant _

_A dormi sous ton aile, _

_A grandi sous tes yeux. _

_Là que de ton haleine _

_Enveloppant son âme _

_Tu fis avec l'amour épanouir la femme _

_En cet ange des cieux! _

_C'est là! Oui, c'est là! _

_Salut! demeure chaste et pure, _

_Salut! demeure chaste et pure, _

_Où se devine la présence _

_d'une âme innocente et divine! _

_Salut, salut, demeure chaste et pure_

It was fascinating watching the man, and I could sympathize with Miss Daae's attraction to his voice. It was as sweet as a love struck man would sound, but could be as thunderous as a wrathful god. He continued singing until I had quite forgotten his earlier transgressions and was enjoying the music for music's sake. To be frank, I wasn't just enjoying the way he played the Piano, or the unearthly quality of his voice, I was transported. It was the strangest feeling of being filled by the emotion of the song. Before I knew it I was standing beside him. He politely pointed where he was on the sheet music for me to read along briefly before returning to his playing. It was a cozy atmosphere, Him playing, me turning the pages for him. It was clear that, to function, my brain had simply accepted that The Phantom existed. It was kind of cool, except the crazy part. The rest of the night passed without incident, but little did I know what 'Erik' had in store.

****

**A/n: remember to Review if you want faster updates!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/n- Thanks to jtbwriter, who was so nice with her reviews! This chapter is dedicated to you hon! **

**I feel like I'm on a role! Two posts in a week? Yeesh! It's the best feeling ever! Keep the reviews coming folks and who knows I may have a second completed story in no time. **

**Disclaimer- I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, or Me and Mr. Darcy.**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"You're telling me that she just vanished?" The inspector arched an eyebrow skeptically.

"I'm telling you that one minute she was right behind me and the next thing I know she is gone," Matt argued from across the interrogation desk. The Inspector had decided to have their chat in the Police Precinct building.

"You do realize that she may have planned this," Mohammad sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This story wasn't flying by him.

"Yeah, right, fat chance that that is true," Matt muttered derisively. Silence fell in the room. With a deep controlled breath Matt continued, making a supreme effort to be polite. "Listen, I told you that she wanted to clear her name, which was how she got in this mess in the first place. I guarantee you she was taken. Besides, you spoke with her; does she seem like the type to commit murder? Think about it."

The ensuing pause was heavy with the unsaid. The two men stared each other down, but it wasn't a battle of wills. Dark eyes stared calculatingly at fiercely determined blues. No, it most certainly wasn't a battle of wills. It was a battle for understanding. Mohammad Abjib dropped his gaze.

"No she doesn't, but you have to admit the situation looks grim for her in either case. She was the last person seen with Monsieur Becker. Her disappearance is very concerning based upon the facts at hand, but you have my word that we will do all in our power to get her back. Now, please begin again, don't leave anything out. Do you remember hearing a scuffle or anything resembling a struggle?"The inspector asked.

"That's the odd part, there was nothing!"

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely," Matt nodded.

"Very well," The Inspector rose to his feet, shaking Matthew's hand. "Thank you for your time, I shall keep you posted of events."

****

I awoke the next morning with my face snuggled against a soft down pillow. I was curled beneath a crème colored comforter on a four poster canopied bed. The Room was elegantly appointed in the rococo style. It didn't take long before I remembered the night previous. Checking my wrists, proved that. Slipping from the sheets in my jeans and t-shirt from the day before, I left the room. I entered the parlor, which was now set with a hot breakfast. Another door opened and Erik entered, slipping a glove onto his hand.

"Ah, good morning, my dear," he said with evident charm, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips. "I trust you slept well."

"As well as can be expected," I replied diplomatically. Erik slipped a chair out at the small table to allow me to sit.

"Once you eat, everything you will need to freshen up is in your room," he said before walking away.

"Where do you think you are going?" I asked, a suspicious frown creasing my features. My hands were resting on my hips. He continued to walk to the door hidden in the wall.

"Wait, Erik! You're taking me with you!" I exclaimed, racing to catch up with him. He grabbed me by the arm.

"No, I most certainly am not," He replied coldly, turning to fix me with eyes flashing in warning. I ignored the warning in furious indignation.

"You promised…" I began.

"I lied." He interrupted simply. I was silenced in shock from the blatant betrayal.

"Why… You…, you bastard!" I stammered once I found my voice again, shoving his hand off my arm. He didn't want any of that apparently as he pulled me against him. I braced my hands against his chest as a shield.

"I gave you up once, Christine. I'm not doing that again. You broke me, shattered me, and it was years before I pulled myself together," He said softly. "You aren't leaving until I get answers to quite a few questions that begin with why."

"You really are nothing more than a selfish child!" His eyes narrowed dangerously at my words.

"I do believe this entitles me to a little selfishness," He gestured to his mask. "It seems you have forgotten my dear, allow me to remind you." In one graceful sweep, his mask was gone revealing the deformed face I knew had been there all along. It didn't stop my breath from hitching in my chest due to the shock. His skin was a thin yellowish membrane that made it easy to see a great many of his bluish veins. His nose looked like it had been cut off at the bridge. His lips were thin and colorless. The entire effect was exactly as I had expected. He did look exactly like a corpse. I forced my eyes to say focused on his eyes, pushing my revulsion to the back of my thought. I knew better than to lose my composure.

"I demand you take me with you. That was our deal. I will not let you back out on that," I managed to choke out evenly. A horrible sneer crossed his lips.

"I suggest you return to the table and enjoy your meal, Christine," He said with frightening calm.

"I refuse." I said simply, my voice sounding firmer than it really felt. Speaking and breathing got easier as the shock of his face, wore off. But I was baffled by his willing reveal. I knew my defiance wasn't what he wanted to hear, yet I was still startled when he threw me over his shoulder and carried me back to the room he had lent me. I was placed on the bed. He loomed over me, and for the first time I knew what fear really was. I was paralyzed by it. In his eyes, golden and catlike as they were, flashed a leashed anger, and also distress. He brought a hand to flutter softly against the contours of my face.

"There's no need to look so frightened. I shall not harm you again," he whispered.

"Your mood swings are giving me whiplash," I growled, thoroughly bemused. He straightened his stance and replaced the mask. A cynical smile crossed his thin lips.

"I'm sure they are."But before I could stop him, he was out the door and a loud click came from the keyhole. I was locked in. I launched myself to my feet and slammed my fists against the door, shrieking in fury.

"Damn you Erik! You can't keep me here like this!"I screamed through the door. Whether he heard me or not I never knew, for I received no reply.

****

Matthew paced Christine's Hotel room nearing his wits end with worry. Suddenly there came a knock at the door. Matt was at the door in a flash. Standing there was a bellhop an envelope in hand.

"This just arrived for you Monsieur," The boy said. Matt fished out a five euro tip for the boy before taking the note. He opened it and stared at a short note written in an untidy scrawl.

_Monsieur,_

_I must warn you. Stay away from the Paris Opera House. Christine is once again with her Angel of Music. Any interference will be dealt with in the most effective way possible. I say this only once._

_Your obedient friend,_

_O.G._

Matthew searched the envelope for a return address. Nothing but the hotel room number was there. Instantly he was on the phone with the Inspector, informing him of the events before. Maybe there would be fingerprints.

* * *

**A/n- please review! And I'd like some suggestions of things Erik would do with Christine. You know… the Brougham scene where Raoul comes across the carriage that Erik and Christine had taken for a drive in the park. Stuff like that. Should i make him make her sing? Should she be horrible at it, or surprisingly good at it once he corrects a few of her techniques? And yes I know my Erik is Bipolar! But that's what makes him fun! Lol.**


	9. Chapter 9

A/N- wheeeeeeewwwww its been a while. Well, I've finished Boot Camp and I'm now studying my field , I'm pretty excited about that. And now I have a new chapter for you! YAAAAAAYYYYYY! I probably will be even more inconstant with updates because I'm in the military, and they kinda frown on creativity…. Just saying. How was everyone's holidays? Hope they were wonderful!

And now onto the show….

**Disclaimer: I don't own Le Phantom de l'Opera, nor do I own Me and Mr. Darcy.**

Chapter 9

I moped around the room wondering about what was happening above. Were the Police still in the building? I knew Matt had called them without having to see it. But would they find me? I found myself seriously doubting the possibility that they would. No, in the end it was up to me to find a route of escape, which was easier said than done. Hours later I heard the click of a key in the lock, followed by the appearance of Erik.

"Good Evening," He greeted with more cheer than I was willing to tolerate in my present mood. I rose to my feet and turned away from him.

"I have nothing to say to you," I said huffily. I jumped when a hand gently ran through strands of my hair, pulling it back off of my shoulders.

"I thought you might care for some supper, and later we might enjoy a walk around Paris," Erik offered before sweeping me out into the main section of his home where a spread waited at a table set for one.

"You must excuse me, my dear. I find myself disinclined to dine," he stated, pulling a chair from the table. I sighed and sat down.

"Yes, yes, I know. You need less food and sleep than normal people," I sneered. "You're worse than Dracula." Erik just stared at me from behind his mask.

"I would watch my tone, if I were you," He growled dangerously.

"Forgive me for being less than genial," I replied. "But please try to see things from my perspective. I've been accused of murder, kidnapped, dragged into the pit of hell, emotionally abused, and repeatedly lied to. I'm not exactly in the mood to play nice right now." at that moment, my stomach gave a loud protest of hunger, usurping my anger with embarrassment.

"Eat, we will have plenty of time for the past later," Erik commented. I watched him leave the room through an unknown door, and wondered where it led. I sighed and speared another asparagus.

"What past?" I muttered before tucking into the food at my stomach's prompting. this whole dance was getting old fast. I was done trying to reason with a madman, done being reasonable. I wanted out, fast. I finished my first meal since entering Erik's domain quickly and began cleaning without a thought. It was something to do with my hands. Erik reemerged soon after, finding me picking up the scattered sheets of music.

"You should sort out what pages you want to keep and throw out the rest," I said at his appearance, pressing the papers to his chest none to gently.

"As you wish," he replied, taking the papers and rifling through them. I watched how studiously he went over the notes with a quick scan, as though nothing else was in his world but the music. After a moment, he set the papers aside. "Well, Christine, shall we wander the midnight streets of Paris?"

And I knew that here was my chance for freedom, offered so unknowingly by my captor. I would try to lose him in the streets, find the police, and return to America with Matt. The Police were my only salvation from Erik's reach. I took a steadying breath and put on my poker face.

"I would love to, Erik."

And I knew I had to play my cards right, as I grabbed my bag and took Erik's offered hand. Erik lead the way back to the surface, and I had the distinct impression that my goal would be harder to obtain than I believed as we left.

Matthew McPherson paced the hotel room, unable to sleep for the second night in a row since Chris' disappearance. Every time he glanced at her belongings he felt a terrible clenching sensation in his chest and a wave of anxiety was sent through him, making him pace faster. Unable to take the worry, the blonde male fled the room to vent his pent up energy. So he walked, storming through the hotel lobby with a thunderous expression that made other guests think twice about crossing his path. The night was a rare beauty in the city of lights and it made him pause briefly before walking to the Bois du Boulogne. He walked without really seeing where he was going until he arrived at his destination. The Bois was practically deserted except for an odd couple walking down it. Matt stopped dead, not believing he was seeing what he saw.

"Chris…" He whispered in profound shock, seeing his friend with a strange man who had a vice like hold on her. Matt saw red. Without thought he raced forward; his only goal: to rescue his fellow journalist.

"CHRISTINE!" he shouted, running faster across the street.

"Matt!" Chris exclaimed, attempting to get to him before quickly being snatched by the arm by her companion. Matt heard her yelp as she was reeled to the stranger's side and dragged away. Matt closed the distance in a blind fury, aided by Chris' struggles, before a flash became his only warning as he was suddenly lassoed around the throat and grounded with a violent tug. He hit the earth with a hard thud and clawed at his wind pipe for air.

"Erik, STOP!" he heard Chris shriek in horror. She struggled against the man's grasp, on the verge of panicked tears. "Please let him go! I'm begging you! He's my friend and he was only trying to protect me!"

"He was trying to interfere," The stranger sneered.

"So what! You would too, if you were in his position! Let. Him. GO!" she snapped, grabbing the man's wrist holding the lasso. There was a moment of poignant silence, filled only by Matt's desperate gasps. Suddenly the lasso loosened, and the man bent over Matt to remove it. Matt gulped down oxygen desperately, stumbling to his feet. Chris yelped again as the stranger dragged her away roughly. By the time Matt's thoughts had cleared, they were gone.

"Dammit, way to be a hero, Matt." He muttered angrily, digging his phone out of his pocket and calling Abjib. "Inspector…. We need to talk."

Erik shoved me through the door so violently I lost my balance and hit the floor with a jarring thud. I couldn't stop my tears as I furiously swatted them off my cheeks while Erik raged through the house in rapid French I couldn't even begin to comprehend. He locked the main door and slipped the key into a purple velvet pouch before turn his attention onto me.

"That's right, Christine, cry. You were always beautiful when you cried," Erik mocked harshly. I launched to my feet when anger granted me the courage, and I charged Erik, stepping with in the comfortable boundaries of personal space.

"How DARE you attack Matt like that! What in god's name is your problem?" I screamed.

"You were trying to leave," Erik began, silenced when my index jabbed him in the chest repeatedly as I spoke.

"You're right, I was!"

"Why?" Erik hissed. "You owe me at least that."

"Why wouldn't I?" I snapped. "Human beings do not like having their freedom taken from them. They don't like having the right to choice, to decide what path their lives take, removed from their control. And you of all people should know what that feels like! Your self- image is so warped its no wonder Christine left you in the end…"

"Stop it!"

"You are too much of a coward to admit that you are just a lonely scared little boy living in his own self- fulfilling prophecy and thinks that that is excuse enough to take what he wants…"

"STOP, OR SO HELP ME!" Erik rose his hand to strike.

"Do it! Hit me!" I shouted, going red in the face. "You can't beat me into submission any more than I can beat the petulant child out of you." I shrieked as I was suddenly shoved into the Rococo sofa, and the next thing I knew was the room practically shook under the force Erik employed to slam the door he fled through behind him. And the House was filled with a thunderous sound of a pipe organ. I trembled, feeling my emotions like physical pain. The music was unlike anything I had ever heard, it was horribly passionate in a way that tore the heart to pieces to listen to. I was in serious trouble as I felt my self slip out of awareness and drifted through the orchestration. I tried to distract myself and failed miserably until a thought managed to poke through my mental cacophony. I needed proof that I was innocent. I had my camera. And I immediately grabbed it and started snapping photos of the piano, the main house. And went to the door Erik was behind. Erik was my lynch pin. He was the one whose existence I needed to prove. And I needed his photo. Luckily enough I was able to crack open his door and peek the lens of the camera inside a morbidly themed room, complete with mourning candles and a coffin. My captor sat oblivious at an impressive pipe organ and I snapped the picture. Hopefully it would be enough for the Inspector. Erik was not getting away with this, or at least not unscathed. It was at that moment that I saw the pouch on a hook by the piano bench. I could only hope Erik would leave it there as a plan formulated itself. All I needed was time and opportunity. Suddenly the music turned somber and down right tear jerking as I shut the door silently. I made it to my room and was tortured by a slowly breaking heart as I realized I was listening to Erik's life story through orchestration. That day, I lost a piece of myself to him with out noticing until too late.

The next five days were a blur of miserable wakefulness and nightmare ridden unconsciousness. Erik played non- stop, utterly oblivious to everything. Finally on the fifth day he emerged and left the house. I acted instantly entering his room and seizing on the pouch. I opened it frantically and grabbed the key within. I grabbed all of my things and headed to the door with a panicked paranoia. The bolt turned with a heavy click and I threw the door open and ran, dropping the key behind me. I had no clue where I was going as I sloshed my way through the underground lake, and I was as blind as a bat in the pitch black. I felt my way along and it must have been hours until I felt the wooden steps that lead to the trap door to the cellars. I scrambled up them in a rush, tearing the hem of my jeans when they caught on a corner of wood. I hurried my way through the backstage props and set pieces and emerged in the corridors of the dressing rooms. Then, I collapsed, only to be caught by a pair of arms that were accompanied by an eerily familiar voice speaking soothingly. It was male with a French accent that was gentle and oddly comforting.

"You are safe." He said, lifting me up and carrying me. I was too emotionally and physically exhausted, with a migraine that was urging me to sleep, to bother looking at the man's face.

And unconsciousness claimed me.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N- good lord I have taken way too long on this. Thanks to Adriatic Rose, Principia, and RedDeathLvr for their reviews. You have no idea how happy they make me! And may I say… I'm starting to love this crazy Erik I've got going on. If you have read How to Save a Life, then you know that I prefer to write him as tragically sane, an anti hero of sorts. This time… he's aaaallll villain baby. But enough about that, I'm nearing completion of my first ever novel and will be releasing it under the pen name B.L. Krager on lulu(dot)com. So keep your eyes peeled. Much love to you my dear readers. Now, on with the show….**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the opera nor Me and Mr Darcy.**

Chapter 10- freedom.

I awoke to a modern looking bedroom of dark wood furniture and nearly panicked. It wasn't my hotel room. I hastily got out from between soft ivory sheets and threw open the curtains. Outside I could clearly see the Eiffel tower looming over the darkened city. It was nighttime and I was back in the city, thankfully. My memories were flooded nightmarish images, but despite my unfamiliar surroundings I felt like I had simply dreamed them. Classical music played softly in the next room as I took in the vista. I caught the door opening in the reflection in the glass and turned to the silhouetted figure.

"How are you feeling?" The voice asked. _you are safe_. The words flitted across my memory in response to his voice.

"I'm okay, I guess." I replied. His silhouette entered the room and approached. I backed a step away, shying from his presence. He stopped.

"Take it easy, Mademoiselle Daniels. I'm not here to hurt you. Judging by the state you were in when I found you, you've been through a lot," He said, raising his hands in a passive gesture. "You may want to sit down, You still seem a bit weak."

I sat on the edge of the bed. He approached again, picking up an object from the end table. It turned out to be a glass of water, which he handed to me and I caught his face from the light of the streetlamps illuminating the city. It was the dark haired asshole from the Opera house. _Wtfbbq_, I found myself thinking. This guy was pulling a complete one eighty on me. I had never known him to be so polite. At least, not with out a subtle barb thrown in. He seemed to be keeping his distance however.

"Drink," He ordered. I did as told and to my utter surprise, I downed the glass in one sitting and placed it back on the end table.

"What is going on?" I asked finally, staring at his back while he looked out the window as well. He looked back at me, his face caught in a half shadow. His expression was concerned.

"You don't remember?"

"Last thing I remember was walking a corridor of the Opera Garnier," I answered. "I fainted and was caught by someone."

"That was me." he explained. "I saw you and was shocked. You looked like you'd been to hell and back again. I was about to speak to you when you collapsed."

"But why?" I found myself asking in frustration. He arched an eyebrow.

"Why not? Do I need a reason to help someone who really needed it? And trust me, you needed it. I've never seen a POW, but I suspect they'd look an awful lot like you did." I placed a hand to my temple in confusion. I couldn't understand for some reason. Memories tumbled through my thoughts, blurred and hectic.

"So that… was real?" I stammered. "How long was I out?"

"A few hours no more."

I dropped my hand into my lap and stared at him. "Look I'm going to turn on a light, I can't have a conversation in the dark." I said, reaching across towards a table lamp.

"NO!" I heard him say, but it was too late. Incandescent light filled the room and I froze. I stared at him in full, and focused on keeping my face passive in response to what I saw. Half of his face was burned. The scars however weren't new, judging by their look. Shiny red stringy scar tissue covered the whole right side. I found myself shocked. How could I have missed such a painful looking injury. Thinking back I had always seen him from the left side or behind, never full on. He stared back at me with a horrified and humiliated expression. I left the light on, it was out in the open now. Turning off the light wouldn't have solved anything.

"Whoa," I murmured. There was nothing else I could say. "What… What happened, If you don't mind me asking?"

He was silent for a moment, weighing his words. "Car collision."

My eyes widened in response. I got to my feet and approached him. To his credit, he let me look, his chin held high.

"Does it hurt?" I asked, itching to reach up and touch the tender looking flesh with my fingertips.

"Not anymore. It happened a year ago." He said. He smiled gently, and the disfigurement seemed to lessen. I suddenly felt bad about my hostility towards him. His behavior had been a defensive mechanism, placing me at a distance.

"Who are you?" I asked finally.

"I keep forgetting that French papers aren't produced in America. My name is Stephan Montclair. I'm a composer who's working with the Paris Opera as a consultant while I produce my own opera." He answered. He began walking towards the door. I folded my arms across my chest, arching an eyebrow at his evident hubris. He turned back to me, opening the door a little wider. "I ordered some Chinese, are you hungry?"

"God, this is far too familiar," I whispered, a shiver crawling up my spine. Stephan's expression turned concerned.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Nothing. I need to make a call." I replied. He nodded, pointing to a chair in the corner where my bag rested. He left after I started digging through it. I found my camera and my phone at the bottom. Extricating them both, I began flipping through the menu of photos while dialing Matt's number. After a moment I dropped my camera. _oh god, he wasn't a dream!_

"Chris?" Matt's voice came over the line. "Chris? Is that you? Where are you? Are you okay?… Chris?"

"Yes, Matt, Its me. I'm safe," I answered finally, bending to pick up my camera. On the view screen was Erik in all of his furious glory. I stared horrified. The past week hadn't been just some nightmare. "Where are you?"

"I'm sitting in your hotel room." He answered. I smiled at the frantic tone in his voice.

"Okay, look, Let me find out the address of my location and I'll text you. Just know I'm okay. I have quite the story for you." I hung up before he could retort. I walked out into the next room which was a very elegant looking bachelor pad. I found Stephan opening a bottle of red wine.

"I'm gonna need your address. My friend is coming to get me," I said, flipping open my phone to the text app, setting down my camera. He told me and I typed. He handed me a glass of the wine as I sent the text to Matt. "Thanks."

"No problem, thought you might need something to take the edge off." Stephan was staring at the illuminated view screen of the camera. "Who is that?"

I frowned darkly. I picked up the camera and glared at the image. "You wouldn't believe me, even if you tried. I wouldn't believe it myself if it hadn't happened to me."

"Try me," Stephan commented, sitting in a computer chair at a console with an attached keyboard. I hesitated. After a moment handed the camera to him so that he could see the image better.

"Who do you think that is?" I asked, sitting on his couch. I braced for his response, biting my lower lip.

"Qu'est-ce que diable?" He muttered. "Is this a joke?"

"Absolutely not." I snapped. "That man you see there is the reason I am a wanted person. I think He is a crazed fan. He honestly believes that I am… Christine Daae. I snapped that photo to use as evidence against him. I am positive he killed Mr. Becker."

At that point a knock came at the door. I raced to it, yanking the dark wood open. Matt still had his hand up to knock again.

"CHRIS!" He exclaimed in relief. "Thank god!" he pulled me into a tight hug, which I reciprocated. I had never been so happy to see him. "I thought I'd never see you again." we stood there for a moment just hugging each other. Matt be-spied Stephan lingering at the end of his hallway watching us.

"Is this the asshole who nabbed you?" He snarled, trying to slip past me. I grabbed his arm to try and stop him, but he pulled out of my grasp; Charging down the hall and decking poor Stephan. The composer stumbled back, holding his jaw, before turning back to Matt. I raced forward and placed myself between the two.

"Vous american idiot, comment osez-vous pense que je suis son ravisseur!" Stephan ranted. I couldn't blame him. He had every right to be angry.

"Matt, this is Stephan Montclair. He's the one who rescued me," I explained. Matt seemed to deflate, eyes wide and fixed on Stephan.

"Oh…"

"Yeah. Just a bit of an understatement there," I commented, one step away from laughing. This was just too much. And it was the last thing I needed. "Sorry about him, Stephan."

"Vous lourdaud," Stephan spat at Matt, turning away to take a large swallow of wine. He sat and I joined him to look at the red swollen jaw Matt had given him. Matt just stood there like a scolded child sulking and lost at what to do.

"Look, can you blame me? I've been tearing Paris apart brick by brick looking for you, Chris. Last time I saw you, you were being manhandled by some masked figure." Matt explained. I sighed and nodded. I walked over to the desk and handed the camera over to him.

"THAT is who took me. He says his name is Erik, but I don't believe him," I launched into a recap of everything that had happened in the past week.

"Good god! You are kidding me right?" Matt looked baffled. I just shook my head. "But he looks like…"

"Le fantôme?" Stephan finished for my friend. "Yeah I thought it was crazy too. But after seeing the state she was in when I found her, I have no reason to doubt her story."

I couldn't help the grateful smile that came to my lips. "So all that's left is to show these photos to the police." I said.

"I'm not sure if they'd believe you," Matt contradicted. "I've gotten to know Inspector Abjib _quite_ well. He is a wild card, I can't tell where he stands. Sometimes he seems like he's on your side, other times he seems about ready to throw us both in jail. He keeps his thoughts close to the chest"

"I have to try."

"I know," Matt said. "We need a plan. And I want to keep you out of their clutches as long as possible…"

"Won't that make me look even more guilty?" I asked.

"Whatever reasons they have, they've been watching the hotel. I really had to work at shaking them off just getting here." Matt sighed. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, and I noticed the shadows under his eyes.

"Christine is welcome to stay here until everything is cleared up," Stephan interjected, staring into the contents of his wine glass. Silence filled the room. Stephan's eyes met mine.

"You can't go back, they'll break down the door and drag you to the headquarters." He explained. "And any other hotel will send an alert as soon as they see you. Your face has been plastered over the news as a disappearance."

"Th-thank you," I said. Matt gave an awkward cough before speaking up.

"I'll take the photos to the police in the morning, tell them your story, and test the waters. Hopefully we can get a meeting here where you can explain in detail what happened."

"Sounds like a deal." I grinned at him. He tucked the camera into his jacket. I walked him to the door, where he stopped and placed a kiss on my temple. I blinked up at him in surprise.

"You'll be alright here?" he asked, his eyes worried. I nodded solemnly. We embraced one last time. "I'm just glad you're back safe."

I watched his figure recede down the sidewalk below from the window in the living room, a heavy weight in my heart.

**End A/N- Okay, now every one should know our assholes future roll to play. Blatantly obvious yes but IDEC. **

**Exposition is Expositiony. If you are curious why this story is playing out the way it is Please, please, please read ****Me and Mr. Darcy****. you'll understand my goal immediately.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N- A warning dearest readers. This installment is heavy with the sad. **

**Someone mentioned fleshing characters out and making people care about what happens to the character, well here you go. Will it kill some of the intrigue, I can't rightly say. We shall find out together.3**

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**Chapter 11**

"You really care about him, don't you?" Stephan asked, joining me at the window as I watched Matt's figure disappear around a corner. The streets below were still damp from a storm earlier that afternoon, reflecting the streetlamps and making the City of Lights all the brighter. I nodded with an unhappy sigh, folding my arms about me like a shield.

"He flew all the way out here, with a 105 fever, just to be here for me. And other than Claire, He is my only friend back home in New York. He's the big brother I never had." I explained. I turned to him, tucking a strand of my wild curls behind my ear. "I just don't want to see him get hurt. And knowing 'Erik' the way I do, I'm afraid he will be." Stephan remained silent for a moment, his expression guarded and unreadable.

"Thank you for your kindness, Stephan." I continued. "Whatever sharp tongued banter we've shared, I'm glad you are on my side."

"Certainment." He replied. "It is true that I have been less than genial towards you. Let that be the past, and we'll focus on the problems at hand." He extended a rather large hand to me and I took it.

"Okay." I smiled. "You've got yourself a deal. Now, about that Chinese you mentioned…" My stomach gave a growl.

"This way," He gestured. I followed him down the hall into a surprisingly large kitchen which had all stainless steel range appliances and glass tiles in interesting iridescent charcoal tones. Black marble lined all the counter tops and the island, while the cabinetry was a pearl grey. A masculine choice but with feminine touches. A woman had decorated at some point.

I noticed a picture frame on the counter by the fridge, with an almost glamour-shot-esq photo of a woman with long red hair and laughing brown eyes. Beside it sat a small vase of red roses and baby's breath. I picked the picture up and stared before looking at Stephan who was unpacking the food from a plastic bag.

"Who is this?" I asked, catching his attention. His expression saddened when he saw what I was holding. Leaning against the kitchen island he took the photo and looked at it with a fond, if heartbroken smile.

"My wife, Lucianna. She died," He said, setting the picture back in its place.

"In the collision?" I asked quietly. I was almost afraid of the answer. He turned around and braced his palms on the island's marble counter top.

"We were arguing in the car, I was wanting to move to Milan to produce my first opera at La Scala. She had different opinions. She always had loved Paris. It was in her blood, she would often say. I wasn't paying attention to the road in my anger and I blew a red light. And a Semi hit us." Stephan took a shuddering breath, ignoring the tear at the corner of his eye. I found my hands clasping themselves over my mouth in mute horror. "It struck the passenger side, killing her instantly, or so the report said. A fire started shortly thereafter, and I got this." He indicated the scar. "It runs down the outer side of my arm, where my clothes had caught fire. If it hadn't been for passersby pulling me out and getting the fire off me, I most likely would have died as well."

"I am so sorry for your loss," I whispered, wiping my tears away with the heel of my palm. I couldn't stop myself from reaching across the counter and giving his hand a squeeze. I couldn't fathom that kind of pain, and i didn't think I could have endured the tragedy on my own as he had. It was strange how my preconceived notions of snobbery and churlishness were so wrong. It was a lesson well learned.

"Not exactly good dinner talk, is it? Your fantôme and mine," He commented, turning back to the food. He wore a wry, albeit dark, smirk.

"I would have liked to meet her," I admitted. He nodded, not turning his head from his task as he dug plates from out of a cabinet.

"You would have liked her," He added. "She was funny; always laughing." he turned to me. "You know, I don't think there was a single day that she let by without some joke or prank."

That made me smile. He was being quite charming, despite his tragedy and our rough introductions. He handed me a plate with a set of chopsticks and lead me back into the living room. After pouring us both another glass of wine, we sat on his couch and ate. For awhile there was silence as we devoured the Moo goo gai pan. And for the first time that night I actually _saw_ his apartment. It was well decorated, in hues of neutrals, Ivory, black, and a high polished red wood made up a set of display cases containing valuables. The place was very modern, and yet felt old fashioned. The couch we sat on was an eggshell white fabric in a curved oblong shape. I then fully eyed the state of the art computer work center, a home recording studio practically miniaturized for his convenience. It must have been easier to write sheet music on a computer piano keyboard than by hand.

He noticed my attention and grinned.

Matt walked back to the hotel, and to anger the stakeout, he decided to go through the front door. With a smirk and a smug wave at the police sitting across the street, he slipped through the revolving doors and glided through the lobby to the lifts, rising up to Chris' floor and into her room. He sat and he waited at the breakfast table.

Matthew MacPheareson wasn't the least bit surprised to hear a knock resound from the front door. when It knocked a second time, more furtively, Matt was already on his feet and heading to the door.

"Hold on, Inspector, I'm coming." He exclaimed through the door. Upon its opening, he saw a severely livid Inspector Abjib. Matt grinned toothily, stepping back with a grandiose sweep of his free hand in invitation.

"You were expecting me?" the Muslim officer stated drily, crossing the foyer of the room. "Where were you tonight?"

"First off, sir, I'm a reporter and I could see your guys a mile off. I think they need some espionage training or something." Matt stated by way of greeting. "Secondly, I've got something for you." He went to his leather jacket and pulled out Chris' camera, tossing it at the Inspector. "Do feel free to spool through."

The Inspector stared at the tiny view screen for a few moments, clicking through the mundane of Christine Daniels' career. it hadn't been too difficult to puzzle out who this camera belonged to. He was about to set the camera aside when he paused on an intriguing image of a man sitting at an old fashioned pipe organ. He was the most unusual and grotesquely deformed gentleman he had ever seen. the Inspector's first thought was to laugh, but chose to temper his exasperation a little more professionally.

"Are you trying to make a fool of me?" He asked, dark eyes flashing dangerously as he stared down the blonde across from him. "these are forged."

Matt cursed profusely. "You stubborn mule!"

"And furthermore I arrest you for obstruction of justice, falsifying evidence, and harboring a fugitive!" Abjib snapped, his patience finally coming to a screeching halt. He pinned Matt to the wall, slapping cuffs on the struggling man's wrists.

"HEY, hey hey! Hold on just one minute." Matt exclaimed, twisting around to try and look the inspector in the eye. "Those photos are real, I'm telling you! What good would It do me to submit fake evidence? What good would it do Christine? You have to trust me on this one!"

"Like you have so generously trusted me instead of taking the law into your own hands?" Abjib sneered indulgently. Matt shook his head in chagrin.

"Okay, I'll give you that one," Matt conceded. "Please understand that I have my reasons..."

"Yes, You love Mademoiselle Daniels," The Muslim cut off brusquely, shocking his captive into a silence that was only broken after a few moments with a nervous throat clear. The sandy haired blonde hung his head briefly before pursing his lips.

"I didn't think I was being _that_ obvious," He quipped. "But, this isn't about that right now. This is about proving the FACT that she is innocent. She was in the wrong places at the wrong time. You know she couldn't have killed Becker, she was watching the show with the Manager. Please, you have to believe me!"

"The man could have been killed before the show..." The Inspector contradicted halfheartedly. Matt sighed in relief, knowing he was getting through.

"Without _any_ of the stagehands or performers finding his body? You know just as well as I that he died just before intermission." Matt countered deftly, invigorated by a sense of triumph. Silence fell between the two for long moments before Abjib spoke again.

"How do you know all of this?"

"There's small difference between detective work and reporting," Matt grinned. "I did the same as you... and asked around..." the reporter fell eerily silent, eyes trained on the window on the far side of the room. "Inspector..."

Mohammad Abjib took his cue from Matt's tone, and did the same.

"Merde!" The Inspector hissed. Silhouetted by the city, a shadowy figure stood, wearing what could only be assumed as an opera cloak. It hovered in the shadows of the balcony, eyes seen by their reflective cat like quality. The inspector snatched his side arm from its holster and aimed it. _how in heavens name did he climb all the way up here with out any of my men knowing?_ Hairs on the back of his neck thoroughly raised, Abjib cocked the hammer.

"Do it!" Matt whispered urgently. Moments passed and the shadow departed as swiftly as it appeared. Silence reigned in the room.

"Well, you saved my life," Matt commented, with a suspicious blend of bitterness and gratitude. "But you have just condemned Christine." Abjib was taken aback by that, lowering his firearm to his side.

"What do you mean?"

"You know _exactly_ who that was," Matt stated vehemently, eyeing the inspector angrily. "The whole world knows who that was. Not a single person in New York City would see him and not instantly recognize him. And we know how this story ends."

"Where is she?"

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**A/N- well, this was inspiring! Hope you all enjoyed! and remember, the more reviews, the faster I type!**


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